A painting and poem from Ro Niyamot Ullah, a person from Myanmar living in a refugee camp in Bangladesh.
NO WINGS, ONLY WAR
The world remains silent,
watching without stopping it.
Some even support the weapons
that Israel uses to kill children,
old men, women, and even reporters.
The world should protect the innocent,
but instead, it turns away,
letting the bombs fall,
letting the pain grow.
How many more must die
before the world speaks up?
Before it sees the truth
and stands for justice and peace?
These are not birds.
They are Palestinian brothers, sisters, and children—
people whose lives were taken by terrible attacks.
Their dead bodies have risen two hundred meters high into the sky by strong bombs in Gaza.
The sky should be a place of peace and hope,
but now it holds sadness.
They didn’t fly with wings—only the force of war sent them there.
The world stays quiet, and the pain feels heavy.
They are not birds.
They were people with dreams,
with names and faces.
Now they are gone too soon, gone to pieces.
Their names are spoken in prayer,
their faces remembered with love.
Their people are asking the world
to see their pain,
to feel their loss,
and to stand beside them.
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